


sacred & faithful

by sunaga



Category: Fire Emblem: The Sacred Stones
Genre: Brothers, F/M, Pre-Relationship, background Forde/Vanessa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-03
Updated: 2011-07-03
Packaged: 2019-07-02 13:38:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15797640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunaga/pseuds/sunaga
Summary: While wishing Forde farewell, Franz remembers Sister Natasha.





	sacred & faithful

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted 7/03/11 on my LJ. Posted to AO3 8/25/18 with an addition.
> 
> I always did like this ship and hoped to write more of it. Alas.

He carefully traces the pattern for the suede and leather satchel.  The lines must be precise; his brother deserves no less.  Forde will need a new satchel that is free of darns and gaps to endure the Frelian winters.  The scratch of Franz's quill, stained dark with excess ink, is loud in the silence.  He works by candlelight; he knows that sunlight is better for the eye and for such patterns, but there is no longer time.  Forde will be leaving tomorrow at first light to beat the early snow that General Seth's wound foretells.  
  
The lines don't need to be so precise, really.  Too much fabric is perfectly fine; too little means more seams, more seams mean more water that could leak through.  That wouldn't do.  He's never cut too little fabric since the first satchel he made in a fit of boredom.  
  
The candlelight flickers, and the tallow begins to wear down.  He rubs his eyes with the back of his hand, and draws his dagger to cut the pattern.  Measure twice, cut once, might apply to the woodworkers, but it is just as useful in this careful art.  He presses down lightly until the dagger meets the wooden work table; there would be more lines cut into the table when he looks at it in the sunlight.  
  
He stretches across the table for his own satchel and reaches in, searching with his left hand as the right presses the dagger into the table until it stays upright.  Feeling the thread he's looking for, he pulls it out and cuts it against the dagger.  He threads it through the needle tucked into the corner of the leather.  
  
He sews through another candle, his body beginning to protest the high chair that made him hunch.  
  
He bites off the last of the thread, tying it off on the buttons.  His chair creaks, just as his back does, and he pushes away from the table and leaves his seat.  He grabs the finished satchel and slides it across the length of the small table as he left the room, making sure to blow out the candle.  As he closes the door, he makes sure there are no remaining flickers from the candle.  
  
He makes his way to the stables.  Now is the only time he can see Forde off even though his fanfare and processional seeing-off is not for another hour.  He is scheduled to greet the Jehannan envoy that should be arriving soon, and he must go to give them all the pomp and requisite polite mannerisms.  

Forde is curry-combing his gelding, and the whuffling he hears can only mean Forde was giving him treats again.  
  
"Franz!" he calls warmly.  
  
Their exchange is all that it should be.  Warm, cordial, bittersweet, final.  
  
"You will come to visit to see how we're all faring, won't you?"  
  
"Of course I will."  
  
". . . are you-- are you sure that the Lady Knight will accept your affections?"  
  
"Franz." Forde clasps a hand to Franz's shoulder.  "One can never know the heart of a lady.  But it's worthy trying, isn't it?"  
  
Forde straps his new satchel on, not bothering to unhook the old one.  At Franz's questioning look, he replies, "I can't have this new one looking worn and tattered when I come in on my shining steed, now can I?"  He pauses, and looks to the sky.  "I know you must go soon.  Franz, I am so proud of you, and how far you've come.  You'll do good.  I actually have to find General Seth now.  I have a portrait of Lady Eirika that must go to her."  
  
"Ah.  Did you capture her elusive smile?"    
  
Forde gives a smile of his own at that.  "Of course I did.  And now, I am off to find another whose smile is just as, if not more so, elusive!  Oh, Vanessa, I come!"  
  
He sets down the curry-comb.  He turns back as he leaves.  "Franz?  Why don't you go after your lady-love?"  
  
And Franz stood there, alone, thinking of ruined villages, gentle hands, and the memory of a vow to fight for victory and friendship.  Perhaps, he thinks, it is time to fight for something more.

* * *

Across the deserts and rolling plains, Natasha combs her hair. Stroke after careful stroke: smoothening the tangles and burrs with one hand holding her hair, and the other gently easing the teeth of the comb through. And when she is done with the tangles, she will brush her hair another fifty strokes, because it is good luck.

She will finish, and set the comb down in her cupped hands in the cradle of her lap, her feet crossed to the side. She’ll regard the grooves and etched patterns that have long faded away from hands. She does not place it on the floor; no, she places it in the neat, compact, sturdy satchel he made for her, and waits for the next night to comb it.

It is her ritual: she wakes, she toils in this desert that was once a valley – the wrath of the divine has fallen upon her country – carrying water, bandages and her healing staff. She works late into the night, and when she finally has time for herself, she will go and pray. And then, late, late into the night when all are asleep, she’ll take out her comb. She’ll stroke it with her thumb, watching the candlelight slowly die.

Sister Natasha combs her hair out and remembers.


End file.
